Dust swirled behind Boss’ pickup as he delivered lunches to the tractor drivers, one of whom was Jaybird. The old black man and I were constant companions, and I’d been riding with him since daylight.
“Jaybird, let me drive,” I begged. “I want to show Dad how well I can handle this big tractor.”
I loved everything about that John Deere 830 — its bright green color, its long, broad nose, the engine’s powerful roar, the smell of diesel exhaust blowing in my face, and especially the big lever that engaged the clutch.
We were chisel plowing a field beside the highway, and Jaybird had let me drive most of the morning. What thrilled me most was throwing in that lever.
“Jaybird, can Junior handle that tractor?” Boss asked.
“Yes, sir, I been lettin’ him drive all morning.”
“Son, I need Jay’s help during lunch, but rain’s comin’ and we need to finish this field,” Boss said, handing me a sandwich. “Eat a quick bite and keep ’er rolling until Jay comes back.”
They watched as I flawlessly eased in the clutch lever, lined up for the next pass, lowered the plow, and headed across the field.
Chugging toward the highway, I spotted Arlin and her mother parked on the shoulder. Arlin and I were schoolmates, but I had never registered the slightest blip on that good-looking woman’s radar screen. I nosed up to the highway and hopped down.
“Can I ride with you a little bit?” Arlin purred. Before I could answer, her mother snapped, “Boy, how long have you been driving that tractor?”
“Shoot, Miss Helen, Boss don’t allow nobody but me to drive this workhorse … yo’ daughter’ll be as safe with me as she is with you in that Cadillac.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll wait here.”
Arlin was impressed by my explanation of the gauges, pedals, and the plow. Reaching for the clutch, I said, “To make ’er go, you ease this big lever forward, but if you push it too fast, why, this big brute will rear up like a wild stallion.”
And that’s exactly what happened! Roaring out of control, the tractor nosed skyward, lurched up the roadbed and across the highway. When the chisels dug into the shoulder, the nose dropped, the front wheels banged the pavement, and the engine died. The 830 squatted squarely across both lanes and traffic halted on either side. Arlin was howling, and Miss Helen, ghost-white in shock, eyes bulging, was blaring the Cadillac’s horn.
Then I saw dust in the distance. Arlin, Miss Helen and a bunch of disgruntled motorists stood witness as Boss administered a thrashing the likes of which they would never see again. I was demoted from tractor driver to cotton chopper.
While sharpening my hoe one morning for another long day in the field, Jaybird pulled up on the John Deere.
“Boss is gone fishing … want to drive?”
My pride mortally wounded, I muttered, “Shoot naw, I hate that dirty 830.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
